


Buzz from the button being pressed

by GalaxyUniverse



Series: Special Assassins AU (Humanformers Verse) [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Humanformers, M/M, Mild Blood, Pining, Special Assassins AU, Training, Trigger Warnings, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyUniverse/pseuds/GalaxyUniverse
Summary: And that man -his target- he meant everything to Drift-to Deadlock because he was Ratchet. And Ratchet meant so much to Deadlock-to Drift that it hurt. It hurt to hear that buzz from the button being pressed and he was the best at his work, perfect aim and never grew attachments to his targets no matter how long he was with them or how long he had to watch them, stalk them...





	1. 1. Buzz from the button being pressed

**Author's Note:**

> Update: Minor edits.

He knew what he was supposed to do. He knew what his job was and how it entailed how he was to complete his job one day and just move on.   
  
But he was not a normal assassin. His job was not normal or followed standard procedures; acquire target: locate target: take aim: shoot to kill.   
  
If he failed to kill his target the first time, he was to track them down and attempt assassination again. And this process was to be repeated until he succeeded...or he was killed or he died. But then someone else would take over and the job would be completed nonetheless. It had to be completed no matter the costs or how far or long it took. The target was to be assassinated per request.   
  
Then the job would be complete.   
  
That was standard procedure, but his job was not like that. It was similar. However it was more advanced.   
  
He was an assassin...he was an assassin who was booked and given a target to stalk, but not kill. No, not kill...not until the third party gave the order...no matter how long it took for the order to finally come to Deadlock and his target.   
  
His assassination procedure was similar to the standard procedures enough; acquire your target: locate your target: then stalk your target: wait for the buzz on your end from the button being pressed: then kill your target.   
  
It was a game. It still ended in someone's death, but it wasn't always kill on sight, no, not always for him. There were others in this field with him.   
  
He was good at his job. Very good at his job. He never failed his assassination and he never grew interests in his targets, no matter for how long he had them or how long he would need to spend stalking them and documenting their every action and hobby so he can always keep track of them, find them. He wasn't alone in this field of work.   
  
There were other decepticons like him. A special kind of assassin, specialists in their own right. Their job was to wait for the buzz from the button to be pressed on their end only and at random selection and then they would fire.   
  
Deadlock didn't grow attachments to his targets. No, never. He was good at his job. Some would say he was the best. But there were others above him who were just as good, if not better...no, but they weren't. In Deadlocks opinion, some of them were far too emotional...like Starscream was. Starscream was a very emotional assassin, no matter how selfish he was. Megatron was something else, though. Megatron was-  _ is _ a professional. A specialist in his own right and name.   
  
A shame he stopped being a speaker for their breed of assassins. Megatron was the sole reason he joined this career - Megatron's work as a specialist assassin who got an order to kill but would have to wait for that buzz from the button being pressed by that third, innocent party always inspired Deadlock. Still does. That's what he was; Megatron...Megatron was an inspiration to him.    
  
This job was a skill and something he was recognised for, even by Megatron himself, Deadlock had made a name for himself. From someone useless and always strung up on drugs, his next trip, his next high, Drift was gone and now only the professional, highly regarded Deadlock with his precision and skill to aim and shoot and kill remained.   
  
So why now was it so hard to have that buzz come through on his end at random, the buzz from the button being pressed and commit him to do his life's work. To carry out his task. His job.   
  
He peered at the face visible in his sniper scope and took in the face one last time before he fired and shot to kill the man he once knew. The face was more wrinkled now from what Drift provided from his own memories to Deadlock from a time long ago, from way back when. The stress from life and work weighed it down more than the man's age did. He was not much older than Deadlock himself, this man, he was not even 20 years older than Drift himself.   
  
Deadlock breathed in through his nose and let it flow out of his mouth, past his lips, in a cold puff of air. It was cold on the rooftops tonight. His breath was misty as it spiraled into the air before and above his eyes. His breath came out shuddered and shaky.   
  
Deadlock cursed silently under his breath then steadied his hands on the barrel of the gun and aimed once more. He laid his finger on the trigger and aligned his scope to his targets head again.   
  
And once again, it aligned and Deadlock could once again see his targets face; soft blue eyes with bags under them, pale skin framed by greasy, back-combed vibrant reddish-orange hair and pink cheeks, dusted only because of the amount of alcohol the man had drank since his arrival to the fancy party. Thick eyebrows, scrunched forehead, lips downcast in that signature frown that Deadlock learned had become more concrete, more cemented onto that face over time. How many years has it been since he saw that face?    
  
Why was it still so beautiful to Deadlock now, as it once had been to Drift way back then?   
  
The man was older now, but that face still held a lot of significance for Drift, it seemed. That man had saved his life, of course it would. Deadlock cursed silently inside his head and pressed his finger on the trigger.   
  
His target turned from his company, mouth moving as he mumbled his goodbyes and waved his conversation partner away, all the while his other hand brought the strong whiskey mix closer to his lips as he turned away briskly towards the window and looked outside and up at the stars above the fancy pavilion below the window.   
  
Deadlock froze. Those eyes...the sadness within them, he had seen that lonely gaze on a scrunched up face somewhere before...ah, yes...now he remembered where it was...when he stared into the cracked mirror in his one-room-apartment bathroom and found always found his reflection staring right back at him. He hated that look on his own face.   
  
However, he found that he loathed it on that man - his targets - face even more. Those hands had saved Drift, that face had been the first one Drift had seen in clear, luminescent light for the first time in a long time, outside of the grimy, dark and dank backstreets of the Dead End outside of Iacon’s luscious city and that man had saved Drifts life oh-so-very long ago. Had saved, and maybe even made Deadlock when he said to Drift ‘you’re special, kid' and had effectively set him on a path to be this very best version of himself, he was Drift and he was Deadlock.   
  
And that man -his target- he meant everything to Drift - to Deadlock, because he was Ratchet. And Ratchet meant so much to Deadlock - to Drift that it hurt. It hurt to hear that buzz from the button being pressed and he was the best at his work, perfect aim and never grew attachments to his targets no matter how long he was with them or how long he had to watch them, stalk them...   
  
With a shuddering breath Deadlock pressed his finger hard against the trigger. And the cry from the bullet leaving the barrel rang out with a bang through the air.


	2. 2. Buzz from the button being pressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath and Ratchet's recollection version of the events. What's more revealing than exposing yourself to your own failures...in an instant he wondered; 'what exactly might have happened had his killer succeeded in killing him, would he have meet the young 18-year old man he had disappointed and failed more than anyone else in his life on the other side or would he have learned that the man was still alive.' 
> 
> Maybe.

The bullet left the barrel of the gun with a thunderous bang and flew through the air, aiming straight for the two-story windows of the balcony where Ratchet stood in its direct line of sight. People scurried for cover as it hit the glass, shattering it as it passed through.

 

The medic would have stood no chance hadn’t a hulking, robust figure rushed in -with a bed-hair of red and military suit of the sickest colour of green Deadlock had ever seen- and engulfed the slightly shorter, but still sturdy, well-upholstered build of a man that was Drift’s medic and Deadlock’s target.

 

The sound of tearing flesh reached Deadlock’s hearing range despite the screaming and the tinkling of shattered glass falling and hitting the ground. He held his breath and listened to the scream that tore through the Medic’s throat as the bullet lodged itself into his upper left shoulder instead of into his temple, blood flying from the wound and beginning to dribble down onto the pearlescent white suit that the medic wore.

 

Blood pounded in Deadlock’s ears as he watched the ginger-haired man stumbled and dropped to his knees, clutching his arm as the pain reared its ugly head and forced him into a half-conscious state, the man who had saved the medic, barely keeping a grip on the slippery suit as Ratchet kept sinking further to the ground, twitching and gasping for breath. Then the man holding his medic turned and stared right back into Deadlock’s eyes, an ugly snarl pulling at the corners of those scarred lips, one eyebrow pitched down into truly bone-freezing glare.

 

That’s when the assassin realised;  _ Shit, he’d been spotted. _

 

Hiking his gun over his shoulder, he hurled over the wall behind him and dashed across the rooftop to the ledge where the roof he was connected to the next building and putting as much faith as he dared into a non-existent god leaped for his life, landing and skidding across it. By now the alarm was blaring, but Deadlock knew that he just had to make it to the next ledge and take one more big leap and he’ll fall right into the outside community pool located at the bottom of the cliff where the theatre hall that the party was hosted at and which his target attended was located upon.

 

He’d make it out alive, he realised as he leapt off the ledge. 

 

He wouldn’t get caught, he observed as he fell through the air and into the pool below. 

 

As he kicked his legs and pulled himself to surface above the pool’s service, then swam towards the edge of the pool pulled himself out and ran across the deck to the gate and jumped it, then legged it down the street and into the woods opposite the community lot, he cursed that he would have to come back to finish the job another time.

 

* * *

 

_ The pain in his left shoulder was much more sudden and much more shock-striking than Ironhide’s massive, thickset body colliding into his right side and engulfing his whole back as he was bodily picked up and pull/turned away from the balcony window at his back just as the bang thundered from a distance and the bullet smashed through the glass, shattering it into a million pieces upon impact. _

 

_ Ratchet recalls that moment perfectly, before the pain crippled him completely; he remembers thinking what a joke it was to have a party with so many ‘esteemed’ and ‘important’ people be housed there time and time again despite the security being so ‘atrocious’ as Prowl had put it and the windows not being ‘properly reinforced’ for such a location for such a gathering as Perceptor had stated. Ratchet would have snorted with laughter at the absurdity of both of those observations being correct had he not been the target of the attack. _

 

_ After that, the bullet grazed the back of his shoulder before lurching of his stupid-suit’s-material and burrowing into his upper left shoulder at angle just so jarring that by the time Ratchet calculated just how many veins and muscle indentations it bypassed before it even hit the bone above his scapula, Ratchet found that he could no longer breathe without gasping and was sobbing from the pain.  _

 

_ Whilst everyone had scurried around with security and Ironhide demanded to be released to give chase to the would-be assassin, the new Prime and Ratchet’s best friend had managed to snag one of his more prominent students from their little huddle and tug him towards the senior medic’s location. With quick work, First Aid had managed to get Ratchet to lay down and start regulating his breathing. His clever little student had even been carrying a small medical pack with him, equipped with the most important essentials a medic would need, including tranquilizer for the more stubborn patient. Luckily or unluckily depending on who you ask, Ratchet was willing to behave for his own check-up, so long as he got something for the pain. Again, luckily First Aid was generous and a skilled medic-to-be, so Ratchet got a dose -however small- of Type-A pain relief. It worked quickly and justly; within minutes Ratchet was a strutless mess of a man, cradled safely in his Amica’s arms as his junior medic cut and ripped his suit’s sleeves of to reveal the wound and wrapped temporary gauze on it until the medical services arrived. _

 

The words Optimus had whispered into the senior medic’s ear, with a voice bordering on breaking from begging and reassuring to simultaneously shifting to angrier tones that promised to use force just to keep the medic conscious echoed in his head still, even now as he trained with Ironhide to get more control over the damaged muscles in his left shoulder.

 

He had a good friend, Ratchet knew that.

 

He just wished his friend didn’t have to suffer from a case of worry and anxiety now in regards to Ratchet’s healthy, topped off with the very recent Assassination attempt, as well as his own new role as their world’s top (religious and military) leader and maybe the fact that Ironhide kept insisting that this was a special assassination attempt, whcih meant -in Ironhide’s words;  _ “Tha’ ‘t will hap’n again ‘n’ we need tah b’ prep’red t’is t’ime ‘n’ so, you can’t be slow’d down by some petty inj’ry!” _

 

Hence why Ratchet was forced into training today and he wasn’t liking it one bit. He didn’t have a build for making powerful bends and dodges. He was strong and solid, not beefy and rugged like some of the army men on the Prime’s army. Ratchet didn’t do  _ ‘grip m’ arms lik’ t’is and twist ‘em behin’ m’ head whils’ also crossin’ yours toget’er’ _ he was more  _ ‘grab this idiot, force ‘im down, strap him in and push ‘em down the hallway into the operating room _ ’ type.

 

Currently, Ironhide had Ratchet in a chokehold, with the medic’s left arm pulled back by Ironhide’s elbow locking with his. The scar in Ratchet’s left shoulder was begin to stretch and pull, bordering on the ledge that descended from 0%, which was tolerable pain to 100%, which was seering, agonising pain that left Ratchet writhering in phantom pain for hours even when the worst of it passed. This caused Ratchet to flinch from touches constantly now, even casual or comforting ones because he never knew what might trigger the next muscle spasm. Suppose that’s why everyone kept telling him to keep exercising it.

 

But he wasn’t good at that. He wasn’t good at keeping a schedule and he wasn’t good at keeping a regular routine, even for a short-while, even for his own benefit.

 

As the pain escalated, Ratchet turned his eyes down to look at the floor and grimaced. Slowly it was becoming unbearable. And when Ironhide gave a twitch and hiked his left arm further back, tugging Ratchet’s along, that was the final mark of pain that Ratchet found he could take. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears back and snarled through clenched teeth and blocked nose. 

 

Ironhide let him go immediately and Ratchet stumbled forward before he caught himself and stood to stretch the muscles in his neck, twisting his head and neck from side to side, back and forth to lose the imitation left there from Ironhide’s forearm. From close-by he heard Optimus sigh dejectedly. 

 

That sent a pulse of regret and sorrow through Ratchet, but he didn’t let it show on his face as he turned to face Optimus and glare at him; Ironhide walked around Ratchet and came around to stand on his right side, patting him on the back two times ever so gently, “I’m not that fraggin’ fragile, you gits!” He hated himself for making his friends worry over him...especially Optimus, the kid already had enough on his shoulders, not that you’d hear the younger man say it.

 

Ironhide chortled as he walked away and towards Optimus’ resting place, “Sure, m’ favo’rite doc,” when he reached the dark-blue haired man, he leaned down and whispered into his hair conspiringly. The Prime’s teal eyes darkened and his eyelids narrowed as his eyebrows scrunched in worry. The mask guard held in his hands was set down on one knee and a hand rose to scrubbed and young, stress-lined cheeks. The frown permanently etched into those lips twitched downwards. In that moment, Ratchet could clearly see how much the medic’s near death had truly devastated Optimus.

 

_ Of course it did, you old fool! You’re the only link he has left to his life before the Primacy! In a world of politics and lies and constant deceit, you’re the only one who the damned young man has to still tell him how it is and still now he can fall back on should everything in his life become too much. Ratchet, my boy, you’re the one the kid loves and trusts the most, you absolute buffoon. _

 

Guilt-ridden and thoroughly self-scolded, Ratchet pivoted on his heel and headed to stand by the window looking into the military pavillion from the training hall of the Prime’s palace. What a screw-up he was…

 

Not for the first time in ten or so years did Ratchet wonder just how many other people relied on him, and who he had constantly let down...Optimus’ young face and dubious smile floated to the forefront of the senior medic’s mind’s-eye, followed closely by the bashful but assured expression -that was constantly hidden, but still visible if you really looked- of his junior and medical-student in training, First Aid. Among the faces of the reckless and haphazard twins, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, there was also the burly, scarred face of Ironhide and a stern, but equally trusting Prowl and a cautious, yet respectful Ultra Magnus. Then more faces came to mind, including Bluestreak and Smokescreen, the young messenger Bumblebee and the devious policewoman Arcee. Then Pharma’s face surfaced.

 

And Ratchet remembered how he failed Pharma very well, but Pharma could never be contained. Pharma was a free-spirit and as much as they loved each other, him and Ratchet wanted and needed different things; a memory of Pharma surrounded by the richest populace of Iacon floated to Ratchet’s mind and he remembered how stunning the strawberry-blonde man looked in his matching, shiny cream suit with a cape over his shoulders as the other attendees lavished the tall, beautiful man with attention…

 

And then Ratchet’s mind compared that memory to where Ratchet always wanted to be, with the little clinic in Rodion glowing as the light from the inside poured out of the squared windows at the front of the little building and onto the pavement on the sidewalk, and even with the single pale-lighting lamppost standing right up against the building and illuminating it eerily from certain angles, it still looked inviting and safe to those who need a welcoming-shelter, help and safety. Even from memory, Ratchet remembered how his patients, wanderers from off the street would comment how warm it was inside and how bright and welcoming it was, that not even the smell of bleach and medicine bothered them. Instead, some had claimed it made them feel even safer.

 

That triggered a face that Ratchet hadn’t thought about in a long time to surface, grimy and sticky, hunger-worn and bony; all sharp angles and bone-structure but no meat to make it look healthy and attractive. That face was still so unique, so promising, as was the man’s personality and the way he cast his eyes downwards in a sign of respect and gratitude before meeting Ratchet’s pale blues with a striking hazel sort of colour, almost golden in hue.

 

Ratchet remembered that face very well most nights and he wondered constantly just how much he had failed that young man, so much so that the poor kid had just vanished off the streets after spending a night in Ratchet’s clinic, recuperating from his high and attempted suicicde. 

 

The kid hadn’t said anything and Orion hadn’t been any the wiser back then, so Ratchet had kept it to himself, and instead he had insisted the boy stay in his clinic that night, had given him a bed, a blanket and a pillow, then some easy to digest food before leaving him to sleep.

 

Orion had left, Ratchet had slept in his office again and that morning he awoke to watch the young man pull on his shoes, his jacket then his coat and stumbled out across the foyer and out the door, onto the streets. Never once did he leave his seat, just watching through the crack of his office door as the kid left. He regretted it now, someone so special, he had let a kid like that go when that young boy could have become an amazing young man had Ratchet stopped him from leaving and helped him pick up the pieces of his life. Ratchet had long ago broken his promise to never get with a patient or a student when Pharma came around, so why didn’t he help the poor kid.

 

Now that boy was gone, Ratchet let him escape into the wilderness where he knew the kid would be eaten alive and he still let it happen. He was a fool back then and apparently he was still one now.

 

Nevertheless, as Ratchet gazed out into the middle distance and recalled that long, messy black-grey hair and those deep-set golden hazel eyes, he wondered what exactly might have happened had his killer succeeded in killing him, would he have meet the young 18-year old man he had disappointed and failed more than anyone else in his life on the other side or would he have learned that the man was still alive.

 

Scuffing of heels behind him, the scrape of a chair as it slide backwards across the wood flooring and doors opening and closing as another set of footsteps joined the ones walking along on the viewing deck of the training hall.

 

Ratchet turned to look just as Ironhide came to a stop beside him, gazing at the men and boys training below. Ironhide’s eyes held a deep-sorrow in them as he watched the soldiers, and not for the first time Ratchet wanted to comfort his friend and training partner. But, wounds like that could never be healed.

 

Over Ironhide’s shoulder, Ratchet could see Prowl and Optimus talking. Prowl showing Optimus several datapads and paper documents that had the Prime thinking deep, with his eyebrows scrunched together and a hand cupping his chin. The speed with which Prowl’s mouth moved, never stopping to let Optimus process and think was good indication enough that this was urgent.

 

Ironhide must’ve noticed Ratchet’s realisation, because the next thing Ratchet knew there was an arm around his shoulders, hand laid across his wound, gentle as it could ever be, but it still it made Ratchet flinch as the scarred flesh seemed to almost quiver with pain. Ironhide’s eyes were downcast, holding years worth of shadows in them, making the vibrant blue appear almost sickly and dead as they stared into Ratchet’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any errors or mistakes, please inform me. I'm just posting it without editing.

**Author's Note:**

> "If you press this button, someone, somewhere is going to die (but what they don't tell you is that there is a special kind of assassin stalking a random person as by someone's request, waiting and stalking until the button is pressed and one of the many assassins is buzzed at random to finally kill their target)."


End file.
